


Sometimes

by ghosttotheparty



Category: Toy Boy (TV)
Genre: Comfort, M/M, Softness, all that jazz, also idk how to summarise, and gentle, honestly im just rambling, i love them, lots of fluff, theyre so Soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:01:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24133264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghosttotheparty/pseuds/ghosttotheparty
Summary: How nights have been going since Andrea and Jairo moved in together (and since the end of s1)
Relationships: Jairo/Andrea Medina
Comments: 8
Kudos: 113





	Sometimes

Some nights, Andrea would pick Jairo up from Inferno. Jairo would be fresh out of the shower, his hair still dripping, and the smell of his soap would fill the car as Andrea leaned over to press a soft kiss to his face. He never really aimed, and the kiss would always land on his temple or cheek or forehead, making Jairo smile before leaning back in to kiss his mouth gently. 

Sometimes Jairo would keep his hand placed on Andrea’s knee as they drove home, his thumb brushing back and forth, leaving sparks in its trail over Andrea’s skin if his jeans happened to be ripped. The rides home were mostly quiet, Andrea not taking his eyes off the road to watch Jairo sign to him. They would talk when they get home, lounging on the sofa with dinner Andrea made or ordered. Jairo would tell Andrea about anything that had happened at Inferno. 

Andrea liked watching him talk about Inferno. He’d never been, never watched them perform, and wasn’t quite ready to, but he enjoyed hearing what costumes they wore, what the theme was that night. Sometimes Jairo would text him a selfie, a picture with whatever hat or mask he wore that night. (Andrea saved all of them. He even had a separate album for them. They made him smile.) Sometimes Jairo would complain about women who had watched him and the others dance if they didn’t respect them, if they acted like the dancers were for their consumption. Andrea learned that private parties were the worst, that Jairo hated them. Jairo would complain about Ivan taking rehearsal too seriously, or about Hugo showing up late. He would giggle silently before signing that he was a little late too. A smile would crawl across Andrea’s face as he remembered dropping Jairo off in front of Inferno, a drop-off that took a few minutes too long because he didn’t want to stop peppering kisses all over Jairo’s face. 

Since Andrea began to learn to sign, some nights were almost completely silent, the only sounds being the crashes of waves against the beach and passing cars, and sometimes Andrea asking how to say something he couldn’t sign. Instead of signing it, Jairo would lean across their tangled legs and move Andrea’s hands himself, not passing up any excuse to touch him. 

While Andrea talked, telling Jairo about his day, what he had done, how therapy had gone, he would hold Jairo’s hands in his own, cradling them gently like they could break. He would run his fingertips down Jairo’s fingers, sometimes talking so quietly Jairo would have to lean closer to listen to him. Andrea would gently touch Jairo’s rings, twisting them, watching his reflection and the reflections of the ceiling and walls around them distort like a portal to another universe. Sometimes he would stop talking, gazing at the tattoos spreading across the backs of Jairo’s hands and forearms. It was like he forgot he was talking, forgot he was in the middle of a conversation, as he stared, eyes slowly moving across the ink and skin, his fingertips absentmindedly grazing the skin, tracing the art. Jairo would watch his face, watch the small smile that stayed there, a smile so small it almost wasn’t there at all, was only there if you looked for it or already knew it was there, like the Mona Lisa. 

Jairo would put a hand out of Andrea’s grip and would gently push back his bright blue fringe, allowing Jairo to see his eyes. When Jairo’s palm finally pressed to Andrea’s cheek, the way it always did, Andrea’s eyes would drift shut like he was falling asleep, and his face would turn into Jairo’s hand, his other hand still clutched between Andrea’s. Andrea would move his legs, wrapping them around Jairo’s waist, pulling Jairo closer to himself, hold their hands between them. Sometimes they would fall asleep there, limbs tangled and chests pressed together like two halves of a heart, their pulses syncing, their breaths aligning. 

~ 

Some nights Andrea was tired. When they were both at home, Andrea would change into his pajamas, not saying a word, and lay on the sofa or in bed, waiting for Jairo. Jairo would shower if he needed to, would put away the food or groceries, would change before climbing in next to him, careful not to touch him in case he needed space. 

Sometimes Andrea did need space, and he would make no move to touch him. Jairo would grab a laptop or turn on the television, turn on a movie or show he knew Andrea liked. He would watch the screen, glancing at Andrea to see him smile at funny parts, the light from the screen glinting in his eyes. Sometimes after a while Andrea would crawl closer to Jairo, drawing his arm around himself, and could curl up, his head pressed against Jairo’s chest, listening to his heartbeat. He would close his eyes when he felt Jairo’s fingers in his hair, gently scratching his scalp, would sigh when Jairo dropped his own head on top of his.

~

Even though there were nights where Andrea couldn’t be touched, nights where he would curl into a ball and bury himself under blankets, blocking out light and sound, until he was just okay enough to be with Jairo, there were nights where he couldn’t keep his hands off him. Nights where he would wrap himself around Jairo, sliding his hands across his chest, down his arms, over his shoulders, over the buzzed hair on the back of his head, until his fingers were tangled in his hair, which Andrea had taken down from its knot as soon as he could. (He’d discovered how much he liked to play with Jairo’s hair, some nights braiding it as Jairo lay in his lap.) 

Jairo’s arms would wrap around Andrea’s waist, his hands would run down his legs, press against the small of his back, pulling him closer until their chests were pressed together. He would slide a hand up to hold the back of Andrea’s neck, touching his hair, tugging it. 

Andrea would kiss him. He liked kissing him, liked biting and sucking on his lips, liked breathing into his mouth. He liked kissing across his cheek, liked feeling Jairo’s stubble scratch his lips. Sometimes, when it was especially late at night and all they could hear was the white noise of the ocean, when the dark covered them like a blanket and the stars shined bright in the sky (if they cared to look), Andrea liked kissing down Jairo’s neck, liked leaving gentle marks on the soft skin, liked hearing how Jairo’s breathing shuddered when Andrea mouthed around his earring. Sometimes he would pull his hands from Jairo’s hair and tenderly pulled the collar of his shirt down to reveal his tattoo. Andrea would run his fingertips over it, oblivious to how Jairo watched him, his eyes smiling, Andrea would lean down, skimming his lips over the ink, his eyes closed, until he would turn and nestle his face in the side of Jairo’s neck. Then Jairo would really smile.

Jairo would carry Andrea to bed, and Andrea would tuck his hands between himself and Jairo’s chest, sighing, until Jairo gently placed him on the bed. Andrea loved how gentle Jairo was with him, every time he touched him, pushed his hair back, kissed him, or held him. It made Andrea feel loved. 

They hadn’t said it yet, hadn’t said “I love you,” or asked each other if they were each other’s boyfriends. Though, neither of them really had to. It was unspoken, it was said in every movement, every glance. Every quirk of their eyebrows that read "Are you okay?" and every subtle nod that read "I’m here." Every second spent waiting for the other to buckle up before driving off, every gentle squeeze of a knee, every soft kiss over closed, sleeping eyes, every sign by Andrea that wasn’t quite right but showed he was trying, every deep breath by Jairo in an attempt to calm Andrea. Every time Jairo sat next to Andrea, not reaching for him, not touching him, and waited for Andrea to tell him what he needed at that moment. Every time Jairo left the flat because Andrea needed space. Every time Andrea refilled an ice bag as he grabbed a ready one for Jairo’s shoulder or knee, every time he gently massaged his soreness away. 

~

Sometimes Andrea would talk about therapy. He’d begun seeing someone in town, a woman named Sandra. One night he whispered, “Do you want to know what my therapist said today?” and Jairo nodded smiling softly. Andrea told him about how Sandra compared his feelings and emotions to clouds, always shifting, fleeting, moving, and Jairo listened, his eyes closed, feeling Andrea’s soft breath against his neck, feeling Andrea’s fingers move deftly over his, tracing his tattoos and running over his rings. 

Sometimes when Andrea wasn’t okay, Jairo would what Sandra said. He would sign "They’re just like clouds," with one hand as Andrea held the other, Andrea’s grip stronger than his own. "Blow my hair out of my face," after tugging his hair out of its bun, bending down further to look into Andrea’s eyes. Andrea would try, exhaling in Jairo’s direction, and although his hair barely moved, it managed to calm his breathing, forcing him to take deep breaths. "I’ve got you," as he rubbed a thumb back and forth over the back of Andrea’s hand, as he leaned forward so their foreheads pressed together and he could feel Andrea’s breath on his face. 

Sometimes Andrea would draw Jairo. His style was cartoonish, like the anime movies he loved to watch, that Jairo was beginning to love as well, and Jairo loved it. Loved watching Andrea’s face contort with focus, his eyebrows furrowing together, his eyes narrowing, the tip of his tongue peeking out from between his lips. (If Jairo could draw, he decided, he would only ever draw Andrea.) Andrea captured everything in his drawings, even if they did make Jairo looks smoother than he felt. Andrea drew his facial hair, the divet in his hair at his temple, his rings, his tattoos, which he managed to simplify and still keep detailed, and his earring, which Jairo knew he loved. One night, Andrea grabbed Jairo’s hand and looked at it, gazing, analyzing, memorizing, until he put it on his lap as he drew, glancing back and forth as he drew the snake on the back of his hand. Andrea gave most of his drawings to Jairo, keeping a few of them for himself, and Jairo kept every single one, even the ones Andrea hated. The ones he’d colored, the ones he’d gone over with ink, the ones that were wrinkled from erasing the paper too many times, the ones with stains and smudges from being left on the kitchen counter after Jairo had cooked. There was one that was so wrinkled it almost kept its shape after Andre had crushed it into a ball and thrown it away. Jairo kept them all, most of them pinned to his locker door at Inferno, one in his wallet, one tucked away a book. Andrea didn’t have to know. 

~ 

Sometimes Andrea would be waiting for Jairo at the door, late at night. He would be sitting with his chest to the back of the sofa, facing the front door, his chin resting on his forearms crossed in front of him. His hair would be tousled from trying to sleep. “But I couldn’t sleep without you,” he would say quietly, so quietly it almost got lost between them, after a light scolding from Jairo that he should be in bed by now. He would wait on the sofa patiently until Jairo was ready for bed, when he came and picked him up playfully, exactly how Andrea loved, and fell onto the bed with him. They would gaze at each other through the dark for a while (Jairo would sign "Beautiful") before falling asleep in each other’s arms, Andrea’s head tucked under Jairo’s chin, Jairo’s arms wrapped around him, Andrea’s hands curled against his chest. 

Safe.


End file.
